


Scars That Never Heal

by CaptainWeasley



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Abuse, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Branding, Cutting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Gags, Gaslighting, How? Fuck if I know, I Don't Even Have an Excuse, Kidnapping, M/M, No Insults, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS, Peter is captured by Toomes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Tasers, Torture, Verbal Humiliation, that scene in the car had me screaming, this story consists of actual torture so PLEASE don't read this if that upsets you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-29 18:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20440505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainWeasley/pseuds/CaptainWeasley
Summary: Peter is captured by Toomes before the final heist goes down, and Toomes intends to make sure that Peter never interferes with his business again.





	Scars That Never Heal

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this whole fic about sweet little Peter being brutally tortured and I would like to formally apologize to Tom Holland for all of it. Tom, if for some unfortunate reason you happen to read this, please know that I love you very much. I'm sorry I couldn't stop myself. Please forgive me.

Peter struggles against his bonds. It's not doing any good, but he's still desperately trying, still unable to believe that the one time he really needs it, his super-strength is failing him. 

"Good, you're finally conscious," a voice says from somewhere in the room. Peter recognizes it at once. _Toomes._

"Let me go!" 

Peter can hear the man's footsteps, coming closer. He struggles even harder, trying to free himself, but it's no use. 

"Manners, boy. Hasn't anyone ever taught you manners? In my house, we say please and thank you." 

The audacity of it lets Peter momentarily forget that he's chained up, that the surface his chest and stomach are lying on is cold and hard and uncomfortable, that his arms are elevated behind him at a painful and almost unnatural angle. 

"You're joking, right?" 

Toomes enters Peter's (very limited) field of vision, not even attempting to hide the gloating smile on his face. 

"Wrong answer, Pete. The correct answer would have been: _I'm sorry, Mr. Toomes, it won't happen again._" 

The first thought going through Peter's mind is, Is this a prank show? But he can see the older man's expression, the burning hatred in his eyes, and he holds his tongue. 

"Remember that. This is going to be a very long night, but you can save yourself a bit of pain if you choose to be a good boy. Not all of the pain, obviously, but still..." 

The words don't quite register at first. Peter's much too preoccupied with staring at Toomes furiously, trying to free his arms again, that it takes him a good minute to understand what the man is actually saying. His jaw goes slack. 

"What do you mean, pain?" 

Peter's voice is doing that thing he hates, where it makes him sound like a five-year-old. 

"Catching on, Spider-Boy, aren't we? What do you think this is? Friendly neighborhood tea time?" 

The taunting voice makes Peter want to punch Toomes, and he makes another failing attempt at freeing his right arm, which seems to be getting harder by the minute. 

"What did you do to me?" 

Toomes smiles a horrible smile. 

"Good, isn't it? Got the serum from a friend who specializes in this sort of thing, bringing down heroes... It prevents your muscles from responding to neuron impulses. Genius, really. I assume you know what that means?" 

Unfortunately, Peter does. He nods slowly. 

"Just your arms and legs, Pedro, so you can't do anything stupid. Your other muscles... Well, let's just say this is going to be much more _fun_ if you're still in control of them." 

For the first time this night, Peter is well and truly terrified. 

"Let's get started then, shall we? And mind your manners, boy. Last warning." 

Toomes leans forward, tousling Peter's hair with one hand. The touch is weirdly intimate, and Peter tries to move his head out of reach, without success. The way his arms are chained up, he can't move his head more than a few inches to either side. 

"Don't like this? You'll change your mind soon, kid." 

The man disappears, takes something from what Peter supposes must be a table on the other side of the room, it sounds like something made from cloth. Now that Peter focuses on his hearing, there are a few sounds here that he doesn't like at all. Humming electricity, and fire? Not fire, exactly, maybe a gas torch. Before Peter can think further on it, Toomes is back, and Peter realises what the cloth is for when his vision goes dark. He tries to struggle, but Toomes pushes his face down into the cold surface he's lying on, fastens the blindfold with ease. 

What is he lying on, anyway? Peter suddenly has a horrible vision of himself on a lab table, about to be dissected like an animal in biology class. 

"Pl-Please," he chokes out, panic rising inside him, "please let me go." 

He swears he can hear Toomes smile. 

"I don't think so, Pedro. I will teach you to respect me first, and when I feel like the lesson has taken hold, then maybe we can talk about me letting you go." 

Peter bites his lip, trying to calm himself down. He can get through this, and maybe the serum won't work well on him and he can get free, and surely Mr. Stark is still tracking him and will find him and save him, right? The thought lets Peter relax a bit. Yes, Mr. Stark will be coming for sure, he has to believe it. 

He's so caught up in the fantasy of Iron Man kicking down the door that the feeling of a sliver of cold metal against his back makes him jump—or rather, would have made him jump, if not for the bindings holding him in place. 

"What are you doing?" 

Even before he finishes his question, Peter can put the pieces together: metal cutting into cloth, his back becoming exposed to the air in the room inch by inch. 

"You're not going to need this tonight," Toomes tells him. The scissors cut through Peter's shirt like a warm knife through butter. 

First the back of the shirt yields under the metal, then the sleeves, until Toomes can easily pull it all away, leaving Peter shivering and vulnerable on the table. At least he's still wearing his other clothes, Peter tries to calm himself, then he's gripped by a horrible thought: What if Toomes doesn't stop at his shirt? For the moment, however, the man doesn't seem to have any such plans. Peter can hear the metal _clink_ of him putting down the scissors. Then there's a heavier sound of him picking something up, and Peter doesn't like this sound at all. 

"You know what people used to do to captured animals, Spider-Boy? They branded them to mark them as their own. And since I captured you... Well, I think the idea is fitting." 

Peter shakes his head violently, trying to break free, but his arms have stopped following his commands, and his legs are useless. The feeling of being trapped inside his own body is even more terrifying than Toomes' words. 

"Please, Mr. Toomes," he starts desperately, "please, don'—" 

The hot iron is pressed into his shoulder blade and the words are cut off by Peter's own scream. 

Despite the blindfold, Peter can only see white, stark, horrible, deadly white, like dusty bones. The smell of his own singed skin is nauseating, unsettling in a way that is different even from the raw pain on his back. Peter knows he won't ever be able to forget it. 

Peter doesn't know when exactly he stops screaming. His mouth tastes of blood. He realises he bit his tongue. 

The iron is gone, but the pain lingers, pulsates through his body, burned into him more deeply even than the superficial brand. 

"I hear your powers include fast healing," Toomes says conversationally, and once again, Peter has that horrible thought of himself as a science experiment in a lab. "I couldn't get anything to prevent that, so count yourself lucky. However, every time your brand heals up, I'm gonna put another one on you. Today, you're _mine_." 

Peter tries to struggle, but all he can really do is bang his head against the table, which isn't helping. 

"I like the way this one turned out," Toomes observes. He traces the outline of it with one finger, making Peter whimper in agony. "Clean lines, no nonsense. Don't you think so, Pedro?" 

Peter draws a shuddering breath, his whole body shaking. 

"You're sick," he chokes out, "sick, twisted, evil—" 

"Wrong answer again, boy! I do not tolerate back talk. When I ask you a simple question, the acceptable answers are Yes, Mr. Toomes, and No, Mr. Toomes. Do you understand me?" 

Peter keeps his mouth shut in defiance, determined not to obey. Mr. Stark will come in any minute, and he won't break, he won't give Toomes the satisfaction. 

"Do you understand me, boy?" 

Toomes' voice is dangerously quiet, and yet Peter still doesn't answer. He survived the brand once, he can do it again, he can do it. 

"So, you don't want to play nice, Pedro? I get it. You're having some grand delusion of heroism, of staying strong. I have something here that might help us with that." 

Peter can hear him pick up yet another thing, and if he doesn't ever have to hear the sound of metal scraping against metal again after this day, he'll be glad. 

"Alien taser," Toomes explains almost casually. "Shocks you with the alien equivalent of 4 amps, but with the added bonus of not actually killing you. Fascinating design, I bet you would love it." 

Toomes traces Peter's spine with one finger. 

"Honestly, I'm not sure where this would hurt most, I've never actually tried it on anybody. Which gives us room for improvement, don't you think?" 

Peter doesn't answer. 

"Let's try this one," the older man says, his finger on one vertebra in the small of Peter's back. Toomes presses the device into his skin and activates it. 

The shock hits Peter, and it's worse than the brand, a thousand times worse. His skin feels like it's being charred from the inside, his spine about to crack open, his whole body ravaged by raw, disgusting pain. 

Peter only notices that he's wailing when the pain finally _stops_. 

He suddenly thinks of May, of her warm, motherly touch, gripped by the longing for a hug, for her to take him into her arms like when he was a kid and tell him that none of it is real, that it's just a silly old story and she's gonna make sure there aren't any monsters under his bed. 

The blindfold is wet with tears. 

"You gonna be good now, Pedro?" 

Peter nods, fearfully, frantically, desperately. Whatever else Toomes wants to do to him, it can't be as bad as _that_. 

"So, the correct answer to my question is?" 

The pain has pushed all memories to the edges of Peter's mind. 

"Please, what was the question?" 

Instantly fearing another shock, Peter goes on. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Toomes, please, I don't remember..." 

"When you answer my questions, you will either say Yes, Mr. Toomes, or No, Mr. Toomes. Is that clear?" 

Peter swallows down the last remaining remnants of his pride. 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

Toomes ruffles his hair again, like he did in the beginning, and Peter hates it, hates the casual intimacy of it. Toomes is the last person on the planet who should be touching him like this. 

"That's better. Are you going to be good now and do as I say?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

"See how easy that was, Pete?" Toomes moves away from Peter again, in the direction of the table of doom. Peter doesn't want to know what's next. He's sure it's going to be something even worse, but then again, how could this possibly get any worse? 

"I want to do a little experiment with you, to see what you're made of. Would you like that?" 

The fear of a second run-in with the taser makes Peter move his lips against all reason. 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

Metal against metal should be forbidden, Peter thinks, when he gets out of here he will make sure the sound is outlawed, somehow. Toomes comes around the table to stand next to Peter, near the side of his body without the brand. 

"First blood," the man says quietly, and presses a knife against Peter's back. 

Compared to everything else, this is almost comfortable. It distracts him from the other pain, without being absolutely unbearable. Then, Toomes leanes down and licks the cut. 

It's not very painful in and of itself, but it's revolting, degrading, like Peter is a piece of meat. 

"Delicious," Toomes says, voice still very quiet, "absolutely delicious." 

Peter suddenly realises that Toomes made a mistake: This isn't the first blood he shed this evening. That was when he bit his tongue, which is almost completely healed now. It's a small victory, but Peter takes it, triumph pumping through his veins. He bites his lower lip to stop himself from grinning. 

"What is it, boy? Not painful enough for you? Let's change that, shall we?" 

Peter's not sure whether he's supposed to answer rhetorical questions, but Toomes doesn't seem to expect an answer this time. He's busy with something, could be plastic? Peter is sure that there's liquid involved, but it doesn't sound like a single bottle, more like several small bottles. Toomes puts them down next to Peter's side, one after the other. 

"Like I said, a little experiment." 

He cuts another line into Peter's skin, along one of his ribs, then unscrews one of the bottles. It definitely feels like a few drops of liquid but it burns in the cut hot like fire. Peter cries out, and that hurts, too. He finds himself wishing he had a glass of water, cool water soothing his abused throat, he doesn't even really _like_ water... 

"What is that?" 

The words are out of Peter's mouth before he can stop himself. 

"Wouldn't you like to know, Spider-Boy? Don't worry, none of this will do any permanent damage. Do you know why?" 

"No, Mr. Toomes." 

"Because scars are a funny thing. After a few years, you can easily forget they're even there. I'm not interested in scarring your skin, Pedro. With your superpowers you'd probably heal up, anyway. What I'm interested in is scarring your _soul_. That is something you can never forget. Do you understand?" 

Peter swallows heavily. 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

Peter wishes it was a lie. He just can't possibly think of anything worse that Toomes can do to him to scar him for life. Maybe he won't find out, maybe Mr. Stark will get here soon. But why hasn't anybody come for him? What if Mr. Stark knows he's here, but he just doesn't care? 

Toomes cuts a second line into him, next to the first, and opens another bottle. The pain distracts Peter from his disturbing thoughts. This one is even worse than the first one, but it doesn't stop, it just keeps burning and burning, forcing a drawn-out cry from Peter's mouth. 

"This one," Toomes asks in a rather detached voice, "hurts more than the first one?" 

"Y-yes, Mr. Toomes," Peter forces himself to say. 

"Let's see about the next one, shall we?" 

There are five bottles in total, but the others aren't as bad as bottle number two. Towards the end, Peter can almost breathe normally again. His throat is still raw from screaming, though, and the blindfold is clammy and wet with his own tears. 

"This is interesting," Toomes observes. "Your first cut is already starting to heal." 

He traces the cut with one finger, making Peter hiss. It's true though: It's not quite as painful as before. 

"But the brand is still intact," Toomes mumbles, more to himself than to Peter. "_Very_ interesting." 

"Please." Peter's voice breaks, useless after all the abuse. "Please, I need water." 

"Making demands now, are we? Don't get me wrong, I'm not an unreasonable man, Pedro. I just think it's inappropriate for me to reward you when you haven't even shown me proper respect." 

Peter's brain is addled with pain and fear, but even so he's sure he hasn't done anything wrong, he's been good, he's been answering all the stupid questions... 

"What—what do you mean, Mr. Toomes?" 

The man takes a few steps around the table, unties the blindfold. Peter blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the light in the room. Toomes kneels down next to the table, so that Peter is forced to look directly into his eyes. They hold not even a hint of mercy. 

Toomes watches him for a few seconds, and Peter feels like a deer caught in headlights, unable to look away, unable to escape the gaze of Toomes. Then, the man brings up one of his hands to caress Peter's forehead, to run his hand through his hair. 

Peter is disgusted with himself because the touch feels good, and he wants more of it, but how could he possibly want this? How can he possibly want Toomes to touch him? Peter's sure that he's losing his mind, that somewhere along the way the pain became too much and now, he's going crazy. 

Toomes speaks very softly. 

"What I want to hear is: Mr. Toomes, I'm very sorry I interfered with your business, I promise never to do it again." 

Peter knows he's going to say anything, promise anything, if it means that Toomes will leave him alone. The shame burns inside him. He's not a hero. A hero would never break. 

"Mr. Toomes," Peter repeats quietly, his voice hoarse. "I'm very sorry I i-interfered with your b-business, I promise never to do it ag-again." 

"Well, well," Toomes says, still looking into Peter's eyes, "that wasn't so hard, was it?" 

"N-no, Mr. Toomes." 

The man ruffles his hair again, his fingertips ghost over Peter's neck, and Peter shivers, conflicting emotions making him dizzy. The dehydration doesn't help, exactly. 

Toomes stands up, walks out of Peter's field of vision. Peter focuses on one of the tiles in the wall, there's a small crack in it. A minuscule irregularity in a sea of sterile white. How did it get there? The crack is shaped like an upside-down Y, starting at the upper left edge of the tile. 

His view is blocked by Toomes, who steps in front of him again, kneels down to look at him. Peter's not sure if he can believe his eyes. Is he actually holding a glass of water? 

"Because I am, at heart, a nice man, I have decided to grant your request. Drink up." 

He shoves a straw into Peter's mouth. Peter's afraid that this will turn out to be a trick, another way to hurt him, but he's too thirsty to refuse. He takes a gulp, but his neck is held at such an awkward angle that he chokes on it and starts to cough. There are tears in his eyes again, more from the humiliation than the fact that for a few seconds, he can't really breathe. 

"Clumsy boy, make an actual effort now." 

Toomes' eyes are hard, almost shining in the cool light of the room. He looks at Peter with an almost hungry expression, and Peter can't quite figure out what that means, but he's sure it doesn't mean anything good. Toomes isn't planning to actually eat him, is he? Wait, _is_ he? 

Peter tries to drink again, careful not to take too much this time, and is rewarded with cool water soothing his abused throat. He will never complain about water ever again. 

It takes him a while to finish the whole glass. It's not a lot, must be less than half a cup, but the process is arduous. It doesn't help that Toomes watches him the whole time. Peter feels small and helpless under his calculating gaze, like an insect trapped under a microscope. 

When he's finished, Toomes puts the glass away, then he blindfolds Peter again. This one seems to be a different blindfold, though, as it is still dry. Peter wonders how long it will stay that way, then tries to push the thought out of his mind. He wishes he could look at that crack in the tile again, lose himself in it, instead of the endless darkness forcing him to feel everything that Toomes does to his body more keenly. 

"Break's over," Toomes announces. "Even though I am a nice man, you're forcing me to act against my nature, Pedro. Do you know why?" 

Peter shivers with fear. 

"No, Mr. Toomes." 

"Because even though you promised that you won't interfere with my business in the future, you already did damage to my business in the past. What we're going to do next will serve two purposes. First, it'll be your punishment for messing with me in the first place. Second, you will tell me everything that you found out, how you found out, and who else knows about it. Is that clear?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

Toomes makes the first cut on his neck, just above his shoulders, a thin straight line on his spine, less than an inch long. Then, he adds a drop of the liquid from bottle number two, and Peter groans in pain. 

"First question: How did you come to know Tony Stark?" 

"He recruited me," Peter says miserably, "to fight against Captain America." 

"So, he initiated contact with you?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

"Do you keep in touch?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

Toomes adds a second cut below the first one, and Peter whimpers when the horrible burning sensation is doubled. 

The questions go on and on. Peter wishes he could keep a clear head. Tony Stark can look out for himself, he's an Avenger, but Peter is terrified of letting something slip about Ned helping him. Ned doesn't have superpowers, he wouldn't stand a chance against Toomes or his men. 

Toomes is meticulous, his movements always the same: Another small cut along his spine, then a drop of liquid. Peter is wailing continuously even before Toomes has reached the lower part of his rib cage, it hurts so bad. He screams out his answers, and the blindfold is wet again. 

His whole body is shaking so badly that Toomes has to start holding him in place in order to cut him, but the man doesn't let up. 

"Who besides Tony Stark knows that you're the Spider-Man?" 

"Happy knows, he works with Mr. Stark, I don't know if they told anybody else." 

Peter cries out as Toomes adds yet another cut. 

"Do any of your friends know? Your aunt?" 

"No, Mr. Toomes!" 

"What exactly did you tell Stark and his associate about my operation?" 

Peter can't believe it actually worked. He chokes out his answer, still amazed that Toomes believed his lie. His second triumph of the night: At least, he could save Ned. 

Toomes keeps at it until he reaches the waistband of Peter's trousers. For the last four cuts, he doesn't even ask any more questions. Peter's thoughts are incoherent, garbled. For a second, he thinks he can see May's face, clear as day before him, then she catches fire and dies screaming. He remembers the crack in the wall, why is it there? If he could only touch it... What if he was in space, outside his body? Peter imagines himself floating upwards, leaving his weak, frail, painful shell behind, floating into the darkness of space. It's nice up there, nice and quiet, he can see planet Earth from far away, but Earth isn't his concern any more. He's free. 

When Peter comes to, the pain in his back is almost bearable. He groans. 

"You blacked out there for a second, Pedro," Toomes informs him. "Welcome back. So it seems we both learned something about your ability to tolerate pain." 

Peter knows with certainty that he's fallen into hell. This is never going to be over. Every time he wakes up, Toomes will be there, ready to hurt him more. 

"You said an interesting thing back there, kid. You might not remember, with the pain and all, but you told me that Tony Stark put a tracking device on you. So why are you still here?" 

"What do you mean, Mr. Toomes?" 

"Well, if he's tracking you, he must know you're not at home. Why has he not come to save you?" 

Peter swallows, hard. 

"I don't know, Mr. Toomes." 

"And here, I took you for a smart kid, Pedro. Maybe not, then. But I know why nobody's coming. Do you want me to tell you?" 

Peter has never heard himself sound so defeated as he does now. 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

"Nobody's coming to save you because nobody cares. Say it, boy." 

Peter shakes his head once, weakly. It can't be true. 

"Say it, or I will put that alien taser right to your forehead and see what happens." 

Peter shakes his head again but this time in panic, he'll be good, he'll be good. 

"Nobody's coming to s-save me," he whispers, tears rolling out of his eyes and into the blindfold, "because nobody c—" 

A sob shakes his entire body, and Peter hates himself for it, for not being able to stay strong in front of his captor, hates that Toomes has found out about his worst fear so easily. 

"Nobody cares," he finishes the sentence weakly, his voice almost inaudible, and then there are more sobs, and more tears. 

"That's right, boy. Nobody cares about you, not even your precious Tony Stark. If he did, he would be here by now, don't you think?" 

Peter can't speak. 

"Don't you think, Pedro?" 

Toomes' voice is dangerously quiet again, and Peter makes himself choke out an answer. 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

"Good to know you're finally ready to accept this. I am the only one who cares, boy. You know how long it took me, what it cost me to put all of this together? And it's just for you, because I care." 

There has to be something wrong with that logic, but Peter's too exhausted to make sense of it all. And Toomes is right about one thing: Neither Mr. Stark nor anybody else has come to save him, and he must have been here for hours. May surely realised there was something wrong when he didn't come home, why isn't she doing anything? 

Then, Peter remembers that May doesn't know he's Spider-Man, and she doesn't even have Happy's phone number. 

"Have you ever had a girlfriend, Pete?" 

The change of topic comes out of nowhere, and Peter is more bewildered than anything else when he answers. 

"No, Mr. Toomes." 

"Boyfriend?" 

"No, Mr. Toomes." 

"Ever kissed anyone?" 

A blush creeps up Peter's face. 

"No, Mr. Toomes." 

"Good. I want this next part to be really special for the both of us." 

Peter's heart beats fast as the panic rises again. What the hell does that mean? Does Toomes want to kiss him? Oh God, that has to be even worse than all the pain. 

Before Peter can think too much on this, Toomes puts a gag in his mouth, fastens it behind his head. It's some kind of cloth and tastes vaguely of lavender. So, probably no kissing. Thank the heavens. 

"I've heard enough talk from you tonight. I'm going to do something that's good for you, but you might not understand that today. So, this is just to make sure you can't beg me to stop or any such nonsense. You're free to make sounds, of course." 

There's a sense of impending doom creeping up Peter's neck. Something about this feels so much worse that everything that's come before, even though he can't exactly place the reason why it feels so wrong. 

One of Toomes' hands finds Peter's shoulder, his fingers slowly tracing the lines of his right arm up to where his wrist is bound. His arms are so numb that he barely feels the touch, but he still feels enough to know that he doesn't want this, whatever it is. 

_Please_, he tries to say, but the gag keeps the word safely in his mouth, lets only a vague sound come out. 

Toomes ignores his attempt at speaking and just keeps touching him. His left arm, his neck, his shoulders, then down his back. There's the sense of impending doom again, and this time, Peter is proved right just moments after thinking it: Toomes doesn't stop at his waistband this time. Instead, he cups Peter's ass through the fabric, and Peter suddenly knows with terrifying certainty where this must be going. 

_No,_ he tries to shout through the fabric, _please don't, please don't, I'll do anything!_

There's no use, his words can't help him now. He wants to kick the man, but his legs are just hanging there, unable to follow his commands. 

"You're a beautiful boy, Pete," Toomes says, more to himself than to Peter. "So beautiful. You have no idea what that does to a man." 

His hands move around Peter's hips to open his trousers, and Peter screams in protest. 

"Save your breath, boy. You can scream all you like, I'm not going to stop." 

The clothes are quickly gone, and there are tears in Peter's eyes again. He doesn't want Toomes to see him like this, he doesn't have the right, it's too personal. 

Toomes' hands are on his ass again, apparently eager to touch him. 

"I do have some bad news for you, Pedro," the man says without a hint of sympathy, "because I did tell you that I would put the brand on you again as soon as the first scar was healed." 

Toomes runs a hand over Peter's shoulder to demonstrate, and he seems to be right: The pain there is completely gone. 

"So, maybe somewhere else on your body this time?" 

There is is again, metal scraping against metal, and Peter can't take it. 

_You bastard,_ he shouts into his gag, _You sick bastard, I'll—_

The burning hot metal makes contact with his left thigh, right below his ass, and then Peter's just screaming, unable to even think any more words. He's shaking again, heart hammering wildly even after the iron's gone. 

"I don't see why you're getting so worked up about this," Toomes says calmly. "You've had much worse tonight. This is just me keeping my word. I always keep my word, remember that." 

Peter's quiet now, the pain already subsiding somewhat. The smell of burned flesh lingers in the air, however. He swallows with some difficulty, takes a deep breath. It's useless, all useless. He can't do anything except lie here and endure. He should save his strength and his screams and his tears and simply endure. 

He can hear Toomes rummaging on the table behind him, then something that sounds like a bottle being opened. It's not one of the small bottles, though, Peter doesn't think he'll ever forget what _those_ sounded like. 

Toomes spreads his cheeks with his left hand, presses one finger of his right against Peter's tight hole. It feels cool and slippery, and Peter realises that Toomes must be using lube. Why would he be using lube? Maybe it's so he won't hurt himself, Peter reasons disparagingly. _Bastard._

"Relax, Pete. This is happening with or without your cooperation, but it's your choice how painful you want it to be." 

Peter's urge to resist has been burned out of him, so he cooperates, makes himself relax as much as he can, given the circumstances. 

Toomes' finger slips inside him, and even the one finger feels enormous. Peter is sure Toomes won't stop at a single finger, though. How is he supposed to—Peter makes himself take a deep breath before he can panic again. 

_Endure it, Peter,_ he tells himself over and over again. This is not nearly as bad as the taser, or being cut open, or being branded. It doesn't even really hurt. It's just humiliating. 

Toomes starts with slow movements, giving Peter time to adjust to the unfamiliar feeling. After a while, he adds more lube and a second finger, which now isn't nearly as scary as Peter thought at first. If this is the alternative to passing out from pain, he'll take this without complaint. 

Toomes' fingers start to move deeper inside him, until they touch a place inside of him that feels incredibly good—even despite the burning pain on his thigh and the fact that his arms have been bound so long that he can barely even feel them anymore and the horrible reality that it is Toomes who is touching him. In theory, Peter does know what a prostate is, it's not like he's never been on the internet before. However, he didn't know that it would feel like this. 

A moan escapes him against his will, and he immediately feels shame welling up inside him. He doesn't want to enjoy this! Is that what Toomes had planned all along, to make him enjoy the violation of his own body? 

Toomes drags his fingers over his prostate again and again, eliciting more moans from Peter. This is just another thing he'll have to endure, Peter tells himself firmly. Not resist, just endure, whatever Toomes has planned. 

To Peter's horror, he can feel himself getting hard. 

_Endure it,_ he mumbles into the gag, _You'll get through this, you just have to play along..._

It doesn't take long until he's properly aroused. Just then, Toomes stops moving his fingers. 

"Do you want me to fuck you, Pedro?" 

_Yes, Mr. Toomes._

Peter's response is automatic, immediate, he knows what is expected of him after all. Even though the individual words are lost to the piece of cloth, their meaning is clear. 

There is a short pause while Toomes seems to be pondering something. 

"Maybe I trained you a bit too well," the man says quietly. "I think you could use a little more pain to keep you on edge. Just so you don't get too comfortable. But, let's keep it personal this time, shall we?" 

He removes his fingers from Peter, wipes them clean on what sounds like a towel. 

Then, his hand comes down on Peter's ass in full force, the slap reverberating around the room. Peter winces with shock. 

Of course, of course Toomes had something more sinister planned. Just for a few moments, Peter had actually believed the worst to be over. 

A second slap follows the first, then a third. It's not that bad at first, Toomes' touch is not as brutal as metal or electricity or chemicals. But the longer Toomes keeps at it, the more the pain builds up. Finally, Peter groans, and once he starts making sounds he can't seem to stop. His groans turn into whining, and if Peter's evening had been any different, he would find the sound embarrassing. Now, he's just wishing for the night to end soon. 

Peter wants to go home and curl up in his bed and never touch another person ever again, he wants to see the sunlight, he wants to wake up and find that all of this was just a horrible, horrible dream. 

When Toomes finally stops, Peter doesn't really register the sounds: zipper, candy wrapper? No, that doesn't make any sense. 

Before Peter can think further on it, Toomes takes hold of his thighs just below his ass to push them apart, one of his hands on Peter's burning skin where he branded him not long ago, making him cry out in agony. 

"Relax, Pedro. This is going to hurt so much more if you don't relax." 

Peter can hear the smirk in Toomes' voice. He tries to relax, but the pain is too much, he can't do it, he just can't do it. He can feel Toomes lining himself up, and he screams into the gag, wants to make him stop, he isn't ready, not like this, _anything_ but this. 

Toomes pushes against him, and Peter frantically hopes that it just won't work, that he won't be able to— 

Toomes breaches him, forcing a strangled cry from Peter's mouth. This is different from anything that's come before. Peter feels like his body is about to be split in two, like he's going to break apart body and soul. 

And it only gets worse from there. Toomes pushes further and further, ignoring Peter's muffled pleas and cries, his fingers digging into his burned skin to increase the pain. At last, he's completely sheathed, both the warm skin of his hips and some of the fabric of his trousers flush against Peter's ass. 

For the first time this evening, Peter can hear Toomes pant slightly, all pretense of reason and superiority forgotten. He leans forward to whisper in Peter's ear. 

"I like hearing you scream, boy. You should do it some more." 

Toomes lets go of Peter's legs to grab his hips, but even though this means that the pain in his thigh lets up a bit, it also means that a moment later, Toomes starts to fuck him in earnest. And Peter does scream. 

He doesn't know how much time passes. He just knows that it hurts, but in a personal way, that Toomes is taking something from him that wasn't his to take, that he's destroying something inside him that goes beyond physical injury. 

"You're exquisite, boy," Toomes tells him. "So beautiful, so gorgeous, handsome... These are our words now. If anybody else ever tells you that you're gorgeous, you're going to be thinking of me, of this, of _us_." 

Peter shakes his head futilely, _There isn't an us! There will never be an us!_, but deep down, he wonders if that is really true. After all, Toomes is right in saying that he will never be able to forget this. 

"You are mine," Toomes says. "You'll always be mine." 

Toomes slows down his rhythm, leans forward to unfasten the gag from Peter's mouth, whispers in Peter's ear again. 

"You'll always be mine, yes or no?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes," Peter says obediently, with tears in his eyes. 

"You'll come back to me every time I tell you to, yes or no?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes," Peter says. 

"You're loving this, aren't you? Me inside of you, doesn't that feel just right?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes," Peter says. 

Toomes changes his angle a bit, so that every stroke stimulates Peter's prostate. Peter's first instinct is to protest, but he quickly thinks better of it. He doesn't want any more pain, he just wants it to be over. No matter what he has to do. 

Slowly but surely, the damn arousal is back. Peter is powerless to stop it. In a way, this is even worse than the taser, because Peter's own body is betraying him this time. The shame he feels runs so deep he is certain it won't ever go away. He will always live with the fact that he got off on what Toomes did, that he wasn't strong enough not to. Not even strong enough to tell the man he doesn't want this, if it means any more pain. 

To Peter, it feels like it takes forever, while his mind tries to force his body to stop responding to the sensations, but it's a hopeless endeavor. 

"Come for me," Toomes tells him, and Peter does. 

It's the final nail in the coffin. Peter is thoroughly and utterly defeated. He doesn't even cry this time, he just lies there, limp, unable to feel anything. 

With a violent movement of his hips, Toomes comes as well, but Peter doesn't know what to do with that information. It doesn't really matter to him. 

Toomes is all around him: His hands on Peter's skin, his cock still buried deep in Peter's ass, his scent burned into Peter's memory, his voice... 

Peter doesn't register what Toomes is saying, exactly. One of the words is _gorgeous_, which sticks out because it hurts more than the other words. The man asks him a question, and Peter tonelessly replies, _Yes, Mr. Toomes_. 

Peter can feel Toomes pulling out of him, and he prays that this is the end. Please, God, just let me go home. 

There are quiet sounds of Toomes cleaning himself up, putting his clothes in order. 

Please, God, let this be it. Please, God, make it stop. 

Toomes comes around the table, takes off Peter's blindfold once again to look into his eyes. 

"This was fun, wasn't it, Pedro?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

"I think we should do this more often." 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

Toomes smiles at him, a dangerous smile, like he's preparing to plunge a dagger into Peter's heart. 

"I know you're lying, boy. But maybe we'll be able to get to a point where it's not a lie, won't we? The two of us, together." 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

"I'll send you a message with the details for our next meeting. In the meantime, don't even think of going to the police. Your skin will be completely healed in the morning, so you'll have no evidence against me. I used a condom so they won't find my DNA on you. It's all going to hinge on your word... And if you should tell anyone what happened here tonight, I will bring your aunt into this room and do to her what I did to you, and worse. But unlike you she doesn't have the power to heal quickly, so she probably wouldn't survive this. Am I making myself clear?" 

"Yes, Mr. Toomes." 

"And you know I keep my word. Good night, Peter." 

Peter can feel the needle being pushed into his neck, imagines the sedative entering his bloodstream, making its way through his body. The last thing he sees before his eyes fall shut is the crack in the wall. 

And then, Peter sinks into wonderful, empty nothingness again, into the universe, into freedom.


End file.
